The Verdict
by cheride
Summary: An afternoon in detention hall, and everyone's got something to learn.


**_The Verdict_**- _cheride_

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

_Rating: T

* * *

_

Many thanks to three wonderful betas, Owl, L.M.L., and Susan Z. Mostly, I appreciate their differing perspectives on things. But, every once in a while, at least two of them will point out the same questionable moment in a fic, which is a sure sign that it should be changed as quickly as possible!

And, special thanks (though somewhat belated) to L.M. Lewis. "The guy who'll pay you just to move a car" belongs to her, and I appreciate the loan. If you haven't met him yet, take a stroll through "A Twist of Fate". I think you'll be glad you did.

* * *

It had taken a couple of minutes, but McCormick had finally picked up on the subtle tension in the air and felt the stare from across the room. He lowered the racing magazine that had been consuming his attention.

"What?"

"That was Nathaniel Gunn," Hardcastle said, gesturing toward the phone.

"So?"

"The guy I told you about before? Runs that high school over in San Gabriel?"

McCormick hiked an eyebrow. "You mean the one for all the hoodlums and juvenile delinquents that got their butts tossed out of their first schools?"

"The one for troubled teens," Hardcastle corrected.

McCormick stifled a groan, having suddenly recognized the tension for what it was: he was about to be volunteered for something. He shook his head slightly. "So?" he asked again.

"So, he wants us to come over Friday and talk to some kids in after-school detention."

"_Detention_? That school's made up of bullies, druggies, and gangsters. What the hell do you gotta do to get detention in a place like that? Murder the phys ed teacher?"

"Never mind that, McCormick," the judge grumped, "I told him we'd come talk to 'em. See if maybe we can't scare 'em back onto the straight and narrow just a little bit."

This time, McCormick couldn't stop the groan. "So you're gonna trot out your resident ex-convict, huh? Let me tell 'em what a bad, bad place jail can be?"

"Now you're cookin'. And if you're really good, I'll even take you out for a steak dinner when we're done."

"Judge," Mark whined, "I don't wanna do this. Once I get past 'jail is bad', what am I supposed to say to them?"

"You'll think of something."

**00000**

"You sure you're ready for this?"

"Are you?"

The older man looked surprised at the suddenly serious tone. He considered his friend for a long moment, then shrugged. "Not like I haven't heard it all before."

McCormick considered that himself. "We'll see," he muttered, then turned and strode into the room.

**00000**

McCormick examined the faces assembled in the small classroom. Wary, lined with tension, experienced, and far too knowledgeable for their age. Not too many steps away from hardened and hopeless, but that's what he and the judge were hoping to help them avoid. He sighed just a little bit.

_Detention was never like this when I was a kid. _

He smiled at them as he leaned casually against the half-podium sitting on the desk. "You guys didn't hear a single word he said, did ya?"

A couple of them had the decency to look embarrassed.

The smile turned to a conspiring grin. "Yeah, well, I don't listen to a lot of what he says, either."

The group chuckled a little as Hardcastle grimaced and shook his head.

"Looks like you've got a pretty good game goin' with the old guy," one of the boys spoke up. "And that's cuz you been inside. So what're you guys trying to scare us of anyway?"

McCormick locked his eyes on the younger brown pair in front of him. "Luis, right?" The kid nodded. "Well, Luis, just how many of these crazy old coots do you think are out there, anyway? I'm pretty sure I got the only one, so what's _your_ plan?"

"Man, I don't need to hide behind no rich old judge. There ain't nothing they can do to me that I can't take."

"Maybe not," Mark agreed. "But take it from me, you don't really want to get to the point where your whole life has just become about taking it. That's not a way to live." He pushed himself off the podium and walked to the front side. Hoisting himself up onto the desk, he sat casually, hands clasped between his knees.

"Look," he began, "Hardcastle just gave you guys the run-down on the kind of sentences you could get if you keep going down the path you're on; told you all about the prison routine. And he told you a little bit about me, so you know I've done some time. But I'm not gonna spend a lot of time trying to scare you with war stories from prison. I figure most of you guys know someone who's been inside, and if they've been honest with you, they've told you what a hellhole it really is.

"I'm going to tell you about the worst day of my life."

"I thought you weren't going to tell us war stories," another of the boys, Tug, objected.

McCormick shook his head. "It wasn't in prison." He looked at the surprise they couldn't quite manage to hide, and was amused to find the same expression mirrored on the judge's face.

"No," he went on, "those days were bad, and I don't ever want to relive them, but it's knowing how bad they are that brought me to my worst day."

"You know, when I was younger, I wasn't so very different from you guys. Fast talkin', fast drivin', always looking for the angle. I thought I had the world wired. I didn't need anybody looking out for me; I was gonna be just fine on my own." He looked directly back at Luis.

"I could take anything that came my way.

"But just like you guys, I found out it's not as easy as it seems. When you're livin' that way, there's folks around who'll try and stop you. If you're lucky, the folks who try and stop you are family and friends who care about you and want to help you find a better way. If you're _not_ lucky, then it's the system that'll do the stopping, and—trust me—truly helping you out is low on the priority list."

McCormick saw Hardcastle open his mouth to argue that point, but he appreciated it when he kept the thought to himself.

McCormick continued. "After my mom died, the only family I had wasn't interested in anything more than the check they got from the state for lookin' after me. They sure as hell didn't care about me. When it got so the money wasn't worth puttin' up with my attitude, they let me go to foster homes. One after the other, some worse than others—none of them good. And when that didn't work out, when I was between families, I ended up in juvie. Any of you guys ever wake up on Christmas morning in a cold dorm room with nineteen other kids, and the only thing you really wish Santa coulda brought was a real family?" He took a breath.

"I hope you never have to," he said gravely.

"Man, what is this?" Luis said harshly. "The After School Special? I don't wanna sit here and listen to no sucker sob story."

Mark just shrugged. Then he pointed to the clock on the wall. "You got less than an hour left, Luis. Imagine how you'll feel when you're stuck listening to cons for _years_."

Luis smirked. "Just tell us how bad it gets, and then you can go back to being the judge's pool boy. Or whatever it is you are."

McCormick didn't like the insinuation, but he resumed his story. "So, anyway, I did my time in foster homes and juvie hall for a while, but then I'd had enough, and I just got myself lost. I figured surely a guy wouldn't have too much trouble finding some kind of work around Atlantic City. Unfortunately, even flipping burgers is a hard gig to land when there are hundreds of other kids to choose from. But I was right about one thing; there was work. And you don't have to be on the streets too long or miss too many meals before you get a lot less picky about the kinds of things you'll do."

"So that's where you learned how to take care of rich old guys, huh? Bet ol' Hardcase is glad of that."

McCormick was off the desk and across the clearing, and glaring in Luis' face so suddenly that the kid actually flinched. He grabbed the younger man's shirt and pulled him close, his eyes narrowed and his face set into a frightening scowl.

"Luis," he hissed, "the second thing you learn inside is not to insult the guy running the room."

"And I suppose you think that's you?" Luis blustered. But then he had to ask. "What's the first?"

And then McCormick smiled, though there was nothing pleasant in the expression. When he spoke, his tone was as cold as his eyes. "That the guy running the room always has backup that can kick your ass."

The teenager's eyes drifted over to Hardcastle, who was leaned back in his chair, casually watching the exchange. If he was bothered by the near assault perpetrated by his associate, there was no indication. For a few seconds, Luis debated which guy was which in McCormick's lesson, then decided maybe it didn't matter. He slumped in his chair.

"All right, man," he said, trying to jerk free of McCormick's grip, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean nothin' against the judge. Or you. Ease up."

"Don't let it happen again," McCormick instructed harshly, then released the kid and took a step backward.

"Anyone else got anything they'd like to add to Luis' comments?"

None of the kids spoke, just quickly shook their heads.

He returned to his perch on the desk, took a calming breath, then smiled slightly. "Luis is right about one thing," Mark continued, speaking as if nothing unusual had taken place. "There are lots of guys who'll make you that kind of offer. You're kidding yourself if you think you can't reach a point where you'll start considering it." From the corner of his eye, he saw Hardcastle try to hide the sudden surprise.

"And when you're inside," he added, "you're kidding yourself if you think you get a choice."

McCormick's matter-of-fact statement had the desired effect on the kids, and he smiled grimly as he saw the cocky grins slip from their faces. But he hadn't been expecting the frown he saw from Hardcastle, or the way the jurist's face suddenly went several shades paler. He hadn't intended to cause that.

Mark felt his own expression slip just a little, but he forced himself to return his attention to the kids.

"Fortunately—if that's the right word—there are also guys who'll make you offers that you don't even have to think twice about. For instance, it turns out there are guys who'll pay you just to move a car from one place to another." He heard the judge's sarcastic snort, and felt a little better.

Grinning, Mark clarified, "Well, okay, maybe there's a _little_ more to it than moving the car. You gotta find a way in, and do a little creative wiring . . . you get the picture." He turned serious again. "But what you have to understand is that the guys with those jobs can't be trusted. That's how I ended up back in juvie again, because I made the mistake of trusting someone who was only using me."

"Just cuz you were a chump doesn't mean we will be," piped up a new voice from the back.

McCormick shook his head. "You don't get it. It's not because I was a chump; it's because that's what these guys _do_. Some of you probably know one already. A good guy, probably older than you. Has money, and a nice ride, and he's always willing to pick up the tab when you go out for a slice of pizza. Helps you out if someone gets in your face. Talks to you about your girl when she's giving you grief, and maybe tosses you some dough so you can take her out and patch things up." He nodded as he saw the looks of recognition come into their eyes.

"And even more than that, he _understands_ you. He knows you're not the screw-up everybody else thinks you are. When everyone else wants to make you different, he's fine with the way you are. And when everyone else has bailed, he's always there. Yeah, he's a good guy. You're _friends_, right? And the only thing he ever wants from you is a favor now and then. Maybe it's moving a car. Or maybe it's delivering a package, or taking a message to someone, or making sure a certain guy is in a certain place at a certain time. And there's always a nice reward for that favor, too. Seems simple enough, doesn't it?

"I'm telling you now to get away from him. He isn't your friend, and the first time one of your favors doesn't work out quite right, you're gonna find out."

"So what happened after you got out of juvie?" Luis asked, clearly interested despite his intentions.

"Well, my friend wasn't waiting for a joyful reunion, that's for damn sure." He gave a small shrug. "But I was almost seventeen by then, and I'd decided Jersey wasn't really doing all that much for me. So I just got lost again, and headed down to Florida to start over. Turns out when you don't _look_ like a kid, there are almost legitimate ways to get paid for moving cars from one place to another. I started doing some repossessing work, all perfectly legal." He cast a quick, pointed look toward Hardcastle, then looked back at the kids.

"Didn't keep me out of jail, though. I had some more run-ins with the law. Nothing major, but even a couple of nights in county lock-up while they sort things out is a real pain in the butt.

"But here's the thing: it's not like I _intended_ to steal cars, or any of the other stuff I've done over the years. No one ever sets out _trying_ to become a convicted felon. I thought I was gonna spend my life racing; I was sure I was headed for the big-time." He shook his head. "But things don't always work out.

"After a few more years, I moved out here, still chasing the races. But I made some stupid choices, and got into some trouble. You know, when you're sixteen, stupid choices land you in juvie, but at twenty-two, they land you in Clarkville State Prison." He shoved himself off the desk.

"Watch this," McCormick commanded suddenly. He jammed his hands into his pockets and lowered his head, then took eight steps toward the end of the table where Hardcastle sat. He turned, and took eight steps back the other direction, then turned and did it again. He repeated the pacing pattern, head down, saying nothing, for a full minute. Finally, he stopped and faced the kids again.

"That's what I did," he said quietly. "Every day, for fourteen months. In a space eight steps wide, I bet I walked fifty thousand miles." He looked at the young faces intently. "You're in that cell for sixteen, maybe twenty hours a day, every single day. You get out three times a day to eat; you get an hour in the common room, and an hour in the yard. And if you behave yourself, you can get a work detail that'll get you out for a few hours a day. But other than that, you're locked in a concrete room that's only eight steps wide, with nothing to do but try and stay out of the way of the other guy who's in there pacing with you.

"But if you get lucky with your roommate, then at least your cell is safe. And trust me, having a safe place is an important thing. You can get beat to hell just for talking to the wrong guy or walking in the wrong spot. There are people in there who would just as soon kill you as look at you. And people who . . ." McCormick paused very briefly, made a quick calculation, and decided there was no way to say it except just to say it. "And people who will rape you for no reason except that they can.

"You spend every minute that you're outside that cell watching everyone, trusting no one. Someone tries to put a shank in your gut and you fight back, then you end up in solitary for a while, but you figure it's better than being dead. By the time they let you back into the light, though, you're beginning to wonder.

"And if you _don't_ get lucky with your roommate, then you'll do just about anything you can to try and get thrown back into the box, because even being in a dark hole twenty-four hours a day is better than being alone with him.

"And all the while you just keep telling yourself that you'll survive; that there's nothing they can throw at you that you can't take." He let his eyes meet Luis' for just a moment, then tracked his gaze across the other teenagers, who had become strangely silent as he told his tale.

"But then one day, you look at the calendar hanging on the wall in your house. It's the one you hung up right at the beginning, intending to cross off every day that brought you one day closer to freedom, the one that was supposed to remind you that nothing lasts forever.

"But you're staring at it, trying to understand why something doesn't seem quite right all of a sudden, and that's when you realize that there don't seem to be as many Xs as there should. You realize that you quit marking off the days a long time ago. When you look closer, you see that you haven't even been changing the pages; you're at least four months behind. And that's when it hits you: you don't even care anymore. You've shut down; you're just going through the motions of doing your time. You're taking whatever they dish out. You lost hope four months ago and you didn't even _notice_."

McCormick let the silence stretch for a minute, then turned and plopped himself back down onto the desk, waiting for someone to ask the question. Finally, Tug spoke, almost hesitantly.

"I thought . . . thought your worst day wasn't while you were inside?"

McCormick nodded slowly. "I did say that." He turned his head fractionally to gauge Hardcastle's reaction to his life history, and found the older man staring stoically out toward the desks, studying the kids, apparently deliberately avoiding looking anywhere near McCormick.

The ex-con released a silent sigh, and steeled himself to go on.

"Those fourteen months seemed like a lifetime, but they finally ended. I did my time and I got out; went back to making a life. And really, things were going okay. I was finally racing pretty regularly and things were settling down. But the most important thing was that I wasn't making stupid decisions anymore.

"See, I walked out of those gates at Clarkville knowing one thing: I was _never_ going back. I'd been lucky to survive, there was no other way to look at it, and you just can't count on that kind of luck holding. And . . . it was awful." He looked across the room, sincerity painted on his face.

"Don't ever let anyone tell you it's exciting, or simple, or some kind of badge of honor, or any other crap like that. Prison is _horrible_. It kills your soul. You're lucky if it doesn't kill you outright, but you'll never be the same."

He shifted slightly on the desk, wiped a hand across his face, and said what he started out to say.

"But one day, I found myself in jail again, even though I'd sworn to never let it happen. The charge was bogus; it just didn't seem to me that a guy could be convicted of stealing a car that he had bought and paid for, no matter whose name he'd listed on the pink slip.

"But by about the fifth time the PD came by and told me he couldn't make it go away, I was starting to get worried. I was practically begging him to do something. I told him I'd take any plea bargain he could swing that would keep me out of prison; house arrest, community service, even a few months in county lock-up, if it would keep me out of the state system. But he said it was too easy; the DA wouldn't give up a slam-dunk conviction on a repeat offender, no matter what the circumstances." He shook his head slowly and pulled a hand through his hair.

"A 'repeat offender'," he said glumly, "that's what I'd become. Once you get those labels, you're outta luck. My attorney told me we had a trial date. God, I was scared. I'd talked to enough people inside to figure out that juries are a strange group of people. They mostly want to help, and do the right thing, but you just can't get around the fact that they're law-abiding folks. They don't believe in crime, and they don't trust criminals." He shrugged. "No matter what anyone tells you, the jury system is weighted in favor of the prosecution; don't ever believe otherwise." Again, he thought Hardcastle was going to contradict the statement, but the judge just gave a single shake of his head and clamped his lips tight.

"Anyway, the trial date finally rolled around. Took 'em almost three months to finally get me in front of a judge. Can you believe that? Three months I'm sittin' down at County for driving my own car. Three months that—" McCormick broke off as a thought hit him. He pondered for a second, then filed it away for later.

"At any rate, it was three months that reminded me why I really didn't want to go back inside. Even County isn't exactly a walk in the park. But then, the morning we're going to court, the PD breaks the news to me about the judge. Now, I'd heard about Hardcastle when I was inside—lots of people in the joint because of him—but I didn't really pay much attention. I mean, who _likes_ their judge?"

Luis grinned wickedly. "Joke was on you, right, man? Hardcase really was as bad as they said, huh?"

"A stone-cold, hay-bearing jackass," McCormick confirmed lightly. He was relieved to see Hardcastle grin slightly, and relax a little in his seat. He only hoped it would last.

"He raked you over the coals, huh?" Tug asked.

"You don't know the half of it," Mark lamented, tossing a quick wink toward the judge. He sobered immediately. "But the trial didn't take long. A few questions, a couple of days, and it was over. There was nothing to do but wait."

Mark felt the tension crawling through his body. What had ever persuaded him to come here and talk about this? He _never_ talked about this. Talk about it? Hell, he didn't even want to _think_ about it. And, as he felt the cold sweat beginning down his spine, and the hot fear clenching in his gut, he remembered why.

He fought the impulse to jump to his feet, knowing that nervous pacing wouldn't be enough; he'd bolt from the room if he stood up now. And he couldn't even look over to Hardcastle for reassurance. Not now, not when the memory of hatred was so close to the surface. So, he unclenched his hands, willed his heart to quit pounding, and drew in a breath to force out his next words.

"My PD, he tried to prepare me; he knew it hadn't gone well. I think part of me knew it, too, but I wouldn't believe him. I _couldn't_ believe him. Because if he was right, I was going back to prison. Back to the place that I had sworn I was done with, the place that had almost killed me. Back to the only place that makes you see that there's something worse than being dead, and that's not caring, one way or the other. I couldn't go back to that, especially not for _this_, so my attorney had to be wrong.

"But there wasn't much time for reassurance, anyway. The jury took less than an hour to return a verdict."

McCormick swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the dryness in his throat, but it didn't seem to be working. Finally, he chanced a quick glance to his side, though he wasn't sure what he'd see. But he _was_ pretty sure he hadn't been expecting the concealed horror that was written on Hardcastle's face. He hadn't really intended to cause that, either. He didn't think.

He focused his eyes back on the room again. "I heard Hardcastle telling me to stand up. And I watched him read over the verdict before he handed the paper back to the bailiff." McCormick felt his jaws tightening, but realized after just a few seconds that he couldn't stop it, so he just kept talking.

"He was so calm about everything. It was just another case to him, just another day. I tried to figure out from his face what the verdict was, but it was impossible. It could've been an acquittal, or a conviction for mass murder, for all the difference you could see in him." He closed his eyes briefly, trying to erase the image, but wasn't completely successful. "He was just so . . . _cold_. It didn't matter to him one way or the other."

McCormick felt his heart picking up speed again; he just wanted to get through this. "So while the bailiff was walking back to the jury box, I stood there, next to my Public Defender, the guy who had been the only thing standing between me and hell, and he leaned over and whispered, 'I'm sorry'." Mark shook his head. "He'd known, probably for the past three months. But I'd been holding on to my hope, because where I was going, there isn't any hope at all."

He had to stand up then; it was impossible to do otherwise, but he tried not to jump off the desk—he wanted to maintain some degree of composure. But once on his feet, he felt a little lost, and the door really did look pretty inviting. Except that he'd have to get past Hardcastle to get out, and right now he didn't even want to think about that.

So he went quickly behind the desk, and then felt some measure of protection from being separated from everyone else. He leaned forward and grasped the podium, letting his eyes travel over each of the kids for a second, then finally come to a rest on Luis.

"The whole thing probably didn't take thirty seconds, but I could tell you every move that everyone made, every expression that was on their faces, every sound that I heard. For me, time was standing still. But I was only interested in one word, and when the foreman started reading, I prayed like I had never prayed before." His fingers closed on the podium so tightly that his knuckles were showing white, but he kept talking, though he could hear that his tone had taken on a repetitious flatness that he couldn't seem to shake.

"But none of it mattered. The foreman said 'guilty', and everything really did sort of stop for a minute. My eyes got blurry, and all I could hear was like this hollow rushing sound in my ears. I might've actually blacked out for a second, I dunno. I couldn't believe it. It crossed my mind that if I just made a break for it right then, right there in the courthouse, maybe some cop would kill me and I wouldn't have to go back inside."

"So what stopped you?" asked the kid in the back.

"Hardcastle." McCormick didn't let his eyes drift toward the judge. "I was about a half a second away from running when he started talking to me again." He gave a little shrug. "I don't know why it mattered, but I got it in my head that he shouldn't see how scared I was, and running out sure wasn't gonna help with that. So, I put on my best face and I stood my ground." He smiled a little sadly. "Looking back, though, I doubt if I ever fooled him at all."

Mark sighed. "It was probably a stupid idea anyway, thinking that I'd rather be dead than locked up, but . . ." He hesitated. Just how much was he really supposed to say to these kids, anyway? And how much was he supposed to say to Hardcastle? Not, he supposed, that there had been much left to the imagination at this point.

"But I'd probably think the same thing today," he finally concluded, "if the situation was the same."

He watched Hardcastle rub a hand across his eyes, and he felt a twinge of guilt at the weariness in the man's features. But he could admit to a flash of anger that said maybe he'd been protecting the old guy too long.

McCormick drew in another breath. "Anyway, there are mandatory minimums, and there wasn't anyone who was gonna come forward and ask for leniency even if Hardcastle wanted to give me the max, so we didn't worry about trying to get a sentencing hearing. So I just stood there and listened while he rambled on, talking about how I really should've learned my lesson the first time around, and how he hoped I would pay more attention this time so there wouldn't be a third, and blah, blah, blah." McCormick had already clenched a fist and had almost pounded it down on the podium before realizing it would've been a wholly inappropriate gesture. Besides, he really needed to get a grip. This frustration was years old already.

He blew out a breath slowly, laid both palms flatly on the podium, and resumed his speech, the words coming slow and steady, but only with effort. "But I listened, and I answered when I had to, and waited for the other shoe to drop. Finally, he got to the point, and I heard him say two years. And even though it could've been worse, the only thing that I could think was that twenty-four months was a really long time, longer maybe than I had in me. After all, it was ten whole months longer than Clarkville, and that had been almost more than I could take."

Finally, McCormick forced some of the tension under control and strolled back around the front of the desk, trying not to let on just how shaken he really was. He wanted these kids to be scared; he didn't want to have to come completely unhinged to accomplish it. And he carefully didn't look over at the judge.

"So that's a look at the worst day of my life. When they locked me up the first time, it was hell, and I hated every minute of it, but I'd gone into it pretty clueless and didn't really have time for anything except learning how to do my time. But this time, I knew what I was getting into. I _knew_ how bad it was going to be. I'll be honest with you guys; I was scared to death. I mean, yeah, I was also madder than hell, but mostly I was just terrified. I would've given just about anything to have not been standing in that courtroom."

McCormick locked his eyes back on Luis. "And I hope to God that none of you _ever_ has to learn what that feels like," he finished ardently. Then he turned and slowly took the few steps back to the desk, sat down, and waited.

It took about thirty seconds, but then Tug spoke again. "You really did another two years? For driving your own car?"

"I did," McCormick said shortly.

"But—"

"But nothing," the ex-con interrupted harshly. "The reason you kids are gonna end up in trouble is because you're looking for the loopholes. You think the little crap you're doing can't possibly be important enough to cause any real trouble. And you think you're too good to ever get caught doing anything worse. Well, I'm here to tell you that that's bullshit. _Nobody_ is that good, and you can't bet your life on a loophole."

Luis seemed to be considering everything, trying to put it all together. Finally he asked, "So if you already did your time, how'd you end up with Hardcastle?"

McCormick did look over at Hardcastle then, and saw that the judge seemed to be getting some of his own tension under control finally. The old guy was even managing a small grin.

"Well," Mark chuckled, "that's a whole different story, and it's a long one." He pointed up to the clock. "And you guys are outta here in about two minutes, so it'll have to be another time."

"You guys'll come back?" Tug asked hopefully.

"Ah, no," McCormick said quickly, "I don't think so. Besides, I hope you guys aren't gonna come back, either. There's gotta be better things to do after school than sit in a detention hall. But Hardcase is gonna give you some cards on your way out, and they've got his home number on 'em, so if you ever need anything—or if you just wanna hear some stories—give us a call, okay?" He waited for their assurances, then clapped his hands together and said, "Okay, then I'm tellin' you now that I don't expect to be hearing about any more trouble from you guys, or we'll have to come lookin' for you. Now get outta here."

**00000**

For such a small group, it had taken a while to get them cleared out of the room, as several of them had stopped to ask a few questions on their way out the door. And they had all taken one of Hardcastle's cards; McCormick could only hope that they'd hang on to them and use them if necessary.

He thought the judge had seemed pretty much himself while dealing with the kids, though it was true that Hardcastle had almost as much practice at keeping his feelings hidden as he did himself. But it didn't escape his attention that while they had both been making perfectly normal conversation with the teens for the past twenty minutes, they had not yet spoken to each other. But now the last delinquent had left the room, and they were out of excuses. He was surprised when Hardcastle broke the silence almost immediately.

"You okay?"

"Sure. You?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" the judge grumped. "I'm not the one who was in here spillin' his guts."

"No," McCormick agreed slowly, but he didn't elaborate any further. But after a couple of moments of silence, with both of them sitting, unmoving, the young man realized Hardcastle wasn't going to offer anything more, though he clearly had much more to say.

"I wasn't exactly trying to blame you, ya know, Judge," he began.

"I know you weren't _trying_," Hardcastle said crustily, "that part seemed to come pretty naturally."

Suddenly exasperated, McCormick pushed himself off the desk. "I don't know what you want from me, Hardcastle," he said hotly. He turned away from the older man and strode over to the single window, staring at the world outside as if it could offer some escape from the moment. Then he sighed heavily.

"I hated you for a long time," he said softly.

Hardcastle nodded slowly to himself. "Yeah," he exhaled, "I guess you would." He still hadn't moved from the chair where he'd watched the kid's entire recitation, and he just stared at his friend's back. "I didn't know about—"

"Because I never said," McCormick interrupted, still staring outside. "I don't expect you to read my mind."

"Yeah, I guess so." Hardcastle paused, and then added, "Ah . . . that stuff you said to the kids . . .?"

When McCormick didn't respond, Hardcastle spelled out the question, though the hesitation was obvious. "Was that . . . I mean, did all that stuff really happen?"

McCormick shifted slightly; it might've been a shrug, had any effort been put into the movement. But he still didn't turn. "It all happened to someone; who doesn't really matter."

"What if it matters to _me_?" Hardcastle challenged lightly.

McCormick let out a short, bitter laugh. "It's a little late for you to be worried about what happens to cons inside. Besides, you didn't put us there, remember?"

He regretted the thought before he'd even finished speaking it, and he whirled around, an apology on his lips. But the words lodged in his throat when he saw the unexpectedly candid look of surprised pain on Hardcastle's face.

McCormick took an instinctive half step toward the judge, then was unable to make himself move closer.

_You have to do something_, his mind raged. _Talk or move._

"I'm sorry," he said, opting for keeping his distance, "I didn't mean that."

"Oh, but I think maybe you did," the jurist contradicted quietly.

"_No_," McCormick insisted, "I didn't." He stuck his hands into his pockets and gazed across the room intently. "That's not how I feel." He paused very briefly. "Not anymore."

Hardcastle's eyebrow climbed up in surprise.

"_What?_" McCormick demanded. "You can't say you didn't know how I felt before. I can't change the past, and it's not like I can just pretend it never happened."

"I suppose," Hardcastle answered slowly, "though I'm beginning to think there's been more pretending going on than I ever knew."

McCormick sighed loudly. "What do you want from me, Judge? You sent me to prison, and nothin's ever gonna change that. So what do you want me to say?"

"I just want the truth," the judge replied evenly. "We can go from there."

"The truth?" The ex-con was losing the battle to control his temper. "Well, the truth, Hardcastle, is that there's no one on the inside who doesn't blame their judge. And maybe the DA, and the jury, too. Oh, and don't forget about the witnesses, and the cops that worked the case, and maybe even the bailiff and the court reporter, just for good measure. There's plenty of blame to go around."

"That's part of the problem," Hardcastle snapped. "Nobody willin' to accept responsibility for their own actions."

"It was _my car_, Judge! I think I have a right to be at least a little bit angry about that."

"For how long?" the jurist shouted back.

"Forever! It was _prison_, Hardcastle! It was _hell_!"

The ex-con's torment was so genuine that the older man's anger vanished instantly. "Well, I can't change the past either, kiddo," he said in a low voice. "Though, if I had known what it was like for you . . ." he trailed off, not putting into words what he might've done differently.

McCormick examined the uncommon—and unexpected—expression of guilt and pain in his friend's eyes. And after just a second, he smiled gently. "You wouldn't have changed a thing," he told the judge softly, "because you did what you had to do."

Finally allowing himself to close the distance between them, Mark dragged a chair over to the table and sat down opposite the other man. "I really wasn't blaming you," he continued, "I just wanted the kids to understand how it feels. And it woulda spoiled the effect if I told 'em everything worked out okay in the end."

Hardcastle looked across the table consideringly. "Were you really gonna run?"

McCormick held up his thumb and forefinger, almost touching. "This close," he confirmed. He drew in a slow breath. "I was terrified."

"That would've been really stupid. No one woulda killed you; you just would've gotten a few more years tacked on."

"Probably," the young man agreed. "But I wasn't thinking all that clearly. Good thing you started all that donkey braying when you did." He tried a grin. It fell a little flat, but it was a start.

They sat silently for a moment, and then McCormick remembered the thought he had shoved aside earlier.

"Hey, I wanted to ask you about something. You know, when I took the Coyote, and that chipmunk PD, Miller, told me we had drawn you for the judge, I was convinced I was on the worst streak of luck ever."

"I'll bet," Hardcastle said with a small smile.

"But then, when you dragged me back into your chambers to tell me about that ridiculous scheme of yours, I got the idea it wasn't all just luck that I'd ended up back in your courtroom."

"Yeah, so?"

"Well, it's just that I never really stopped to do the math. With the Porsche, I waited in County for three months for a trial; with the Coyote, it was less than twelve hours." He gazed directly into Hardcastle's eyes. "Just how many strings did you have to pull to make that happen?"

"I don't pull strings, kid."

McCormick had expected the standard rejoinder, but he held his ground. "Twelve hours, Judge."

"Well, okay," Hardcastle admitted gruffly, swiping a thumb across his nose, "I mighta pulled a few. But I figured it was worth it. I was retiring in two days; I was running out of time."

Mark managed a smile, and there was nothing flat about it. "I think you got that a little backwards, Hardcase. _I_ was the one running out of time. And you brought your donkey routine in just in the nick of time. Seems like maybe you've been doing that longer than I ever realized."

Hardcastle returned the smile, relief and gratitude now filling his eyes. But his words were as crusty as ever. "You just now figuring that out?"

McCormick was relieved, too, and he laughed easily. "Thinking gets a little cloudy inside concrete walls and barbed wire fences, that's all."

The judge rose to his feet. "Well, c'mon. I'll take you home and see if your brain gets any clearer." He looked briefly hopeful. "Maybe it'll even clear up enough that you'll finish weeding the rose garden and trimming the hedges before it gets dark."

Still grinning, McCormick rose from his own chair, but he was shaking his head. "Nope, not today. You promised me a steak dinner for this. And I skipped lunch so I'd be sure to enjoy a nice, big meal tonight."

Hardcastle grimaced. "I thought maybe you'd forget about that."

"Now, Judge, you know I never forget anyth—" McCormick broke off suddenly, having not intended to steer the conversation anywhere near recent topics. He saw the shadow of uncertainty cross Hardcastle's face, so he hurried back into a typical patter.

"I never forget about good stuff like food. It's only bad stuff that I forget. It's a special gift, really."

"Yeah?" Hardcastle asked cautiously.

"Oh, yeah," Mark continued, smile back in place and heading for the door. "I'll tell you all about it on the drive." He stepped out into the hallway, knowing the judge would follow.

"See, dinner tonight, that's gonna be good. Good food, good company, maybe a nice bottle of wine. I'll remember this for a long, long time.

"But bad stuff, well, that just slips right out of my mind. In fact, I should probably warn you that by tomorrow morning, I bet I will have forgotten all about weeding that rose garden, and trimming the hedges. Oh, and those things around the edge of the roof? What're they called again? Oh, yeah, gutters. I may never be able to keep up with that. And . . ."

McCormick continued his list, even as Hardcastle's laughter echoed down the empty hallway.


End file.
